Je serai poète, et toi poésie
by wolf with panther eyes
Summary: All in all, Belgium's first meeting with Denmark was uneventful. Denmark/Belgium one-shot, written for my DenBelg loving friends.


He'd always been there, for as long as she could remember. That annoying guy from up north. The hyper drunkard, the berserker, the clueless idiot. She heard most of these descriptions first hand from her brother, but there was obviously something Netherlands liked about him, because he tolerated him and indeed would often meet up with him for a drink and a smoke.

It took a while before she met him. Not officially met, though, since she had a very faint memory of him when he had stormed the shores of Normandy a long time ago. This time, though, she was old enough to remember, and as he grasped her gloved hand in his and grinned at her widely, she wasn't quite sure which description of her brother's she believed. He acted the idiot, sure enough, but there was a sparkle of wit in his eyes, and his grin suggested an intelligence that she had yet to see emerge in his words.

All in all, Belgium's first meeting with Denmark was uneventful.

She didn't see him for a while after that. Seasons passed and left in their unending cycle, and she was too preoccupied with her own affairs to care too much about other countries. When she did see him, she acted the same as with any other country, smiling and exchanging any news as the more hot-headed nations argued around them. It took a good while for the nations to settle into their yearly meeting schedule, and by the 1960s she was seeing him regularly, despite never really having a chance to talk by themselves. Not that Belgium cared, she used the yearly meetings more as a chance to catch up with her old benefactors - Spain, Austria, England, France, Prussia. Countries that seemed as old as she was young, and yet fought amongst themselves like toddlers if given the chance.

And then, meeting over for that day, Denmark had ignored the Netherlands and bounded over to Belgium, asking if she wanted to join them at the bar later. To which of course Belgium replied yes - it was either that, or spend the night in a canteen of bickering nations. Denmark had beamed widely at her and tugged her hand, urging her to follow them.

It was just the five of them at first - they were joined by Norway and a reluctant Iceland, but those two soon made their excuses and left. And Netherlands, to no-one's surprise, excused himself after a couple of pints to go smoke a joint outside. So Belgium and Denmark were left behind, drinking and chattering to their heart's content.

And it surprised Belgium how honest he was. So many nations she knew lied about themselves in an attempt for their countries to look smarter, braver, wiser. But Denmark didn't seem to care about that, happily waving his arms around to exaggerate how much damage he had done to Ireland in his Viking days, or how he held the Hans Christian Anderson tales close to his heart and carried a slim copy wherever he went. When Belgium uttered her disbelief, Denmark simply dug in his endless pockets and eventually pulled out a tiny matchbook sized book with a picture of a gawky-looking duckling on it, which he flourished at her proudly.

In return, Belgium found herself opening up to him. Her years with Spain, and how hurt she had been when Netherlands abandoned them. How her favourite time of day was early morning, when the sun was just rising over the cobbles of Bruges and she could sit on a park bench, a warmed pretzel clenched in her hand as she watched the town begin to wake. She even told him how she wished she could marry Tintin, a blush accompanying that confession since she had never revealed it to anyone before. But Denmark didn't mind, he just laughed - not at her, but at the fact that she was ashamed of such a secret - before adding that he'd always been a huge fan of Hamlet and was jealous of Mick Jagger for hooking up with Marianne Faithfull, his beloved Ophelia.

They kept talking, about anything and everything, that night, while Netherlands wandered in and out, adding his occasional remark to the conversation. But that night was really all about the two of them.

Denmark kept asking her to attend those drinking parties after that. Sometimes they had as many as twenty people joining them, sometimes it was just the two of them, but Belgium didn't mind because Denmark preferred talking to her despite the company. Sometimes it wasn't even talk and they held private drinking competitions between the two of them, which always had an unpredicatable outcome because they were both well-matched in terms of alcohol tolerance.

It wasn't until 1993 that the countries chose to meet in Brussels for their meeting, because of the European Union's formation more than anything. Belgium had stayed in her own flat in Brussels for the meeting, and so she was more surprised than anything when a knock at the door awakened her while the stars were still out and the dawn had yet to break. Still sleepy, she closed her eyes and was contemplating going back to sleep when the knock came again, followed by a peal of bells through her flat as the doorbell was pressed.

Groaning, she reluctantly forced herself out of bed, grabbing her dressing gown to appear modest as she opened the door. Her eyes widened as she realised that it was Denmark standing there, and she hastily tugged the gown firmer around herself. What was he even doing here this early? She demanded this to him outloud, to which he grinned sheepishly in response and asked her to get dressed since he had a taxi waiting for them. He was already fully dressed for the cold morning, hat tugged down over his ears and his scarf very nearly hiding his infectious grin.

Belgium hesitated for a moment, and for some reason did as she said, leaving him at the door as she quickly shimmied out of her nightshirt and tugged on some clothes more befitting for outside wear. Her hair was a mess, her face free of makeup, and she hovered for a moment as to whether or not she should make some effort to make herself up, but then she shrugged and just ran her hairbrush through her hair, making it frizzier than she would normally like, but disguised by the beanie hat which she hastily shoved on over the top.

Denmark was still waiting as she locked the door behind her, shivering a little at how cold it was and telling him that he better have a good reason for dragging her out of bed so early. To which he grinned and escorted her to the waiting taxi.

The townside gave way to the country as the taxi drove. Instead of talking as usual, Denmark seemed more preoccupied with singing along to the radio, and after a few songs, Belgium gave in and joined him. They probably could never release a sellable record, but at the time, it was fun. They were both belting out the lyrics to Whitney Houston's latest song (_I Will Always Love You_, which America had sung enough times already for everyone to memorise whether they wanted to or not) as the taxi came to a halt.

Belgium knew exactly where they were, and even if she had been blindfolded, she would have known. This was one of her favourite towns, the one she had told Denmark about during their first lengthy conversation. She glanced at him as they got out of the car, and he grinned back. He knew. He had remembered, even during those thirty or so years? Belgium was honestly overwhelmed by gratitude.

He took her hand, as she was standing there, the warmth of his skin evident even through their gloves. Their cheeks both flushing with pink from the transaction of warm cab to cold street, they walked hand-in-hand through the town, Belgium giving a gentle tug on his fingers to indicate that she was leading now. If he had brought her here because of her words, then she was determined to prove her devotion to them. It wasn't too long until they passed a just-opened boulangerie, the smell of baked pastries wafting into the street. Denmark waved her away and paid for two large fresh pretzels himself which had made Belgium's mouth water just looking at them. She forced herself not to eat hers though, not yet. Not until she rounded the alley and came across her favourite spot in the whole town - the bench overseeing the canel, where ducks and swans lounged on the grassy bank, still asleep. Denmark brightned as he saw the birds - Belgium knew he loved swans, had remembered it ever since he had shown her that copy of _The Ugly Duckling _- and took the pretzel from his paperbag, shaking out crumbs for them to eat once they awoke.

They sat down together, sides pressing against each other almost accidentally - if Denmark asked about it, Belgium would make an excuse about warmth. And together, they ate their pretzels as the sun climbed out of the horizon and into the sky, casting its rosy glow upon the stony houses and stirring those that were still sleeping.

In gratitude, Belgium turned to kiss Denmark on the cheek.

At the same time, Denmark turned to kiss her mouth.

And the beautiful morning was made perfect.


End file.
